


if you're willing to be thrilled

by pelele



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Newt Scamander, Cinnamon Roll Newt Scamander, Established Relationship, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship, Gen, Internal Conflict, Nagini Isn't Called Nagini, Paranoia, Past Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Seduction, Sibling Bonding, Stealth Crossover, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 18:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17792201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelele/pseuds/pelele
Summary: "Something in London has been attacking wizards, Newt. No, not just something — a monster."A series of mysterious deaths are cropping up at random over London as Newt accepts Dumbledore's offer. When a beast is set to blame for them, in the aftermath of Grindelwald's escape, Theseus joins his brother in finding out the truth of who, or what, is commiting these dark crimes.





	if you're willing to be thrilled

Newt eyes snapped open at exactly 4 a.m. Not the usual flutter of lashes, the struggle to see through the blur of drowsiness, usually followed by some sort of makeshift light source blinding him. It was a mechanical gesture that led way to absolute darkness. He knew it was 4 o’clock because he could hear the deep chime of the old clock, echoing from somewhere in the house under the sound of rain.

The house felt unusually empty. While certainly larger than the little yellow brick, Victorian apartment he'd lived in before returning to Dorchester, it also wasn’t what one would call large. Newt now felt as though he was in a yawning gap somewhere, surrounded by miles of empty darkness. There was no birdsong, not a huff or purl from his creatures. Bracing his feet on the floor, he couldn’t even feel the vibrations of the Kelpie, always restless in the morning, swimming about. Only the ticking clock.

Slowly, Newt stood from the bed, one hand —its arm bandaged, and he wondered when that had happened — on the wall to guide him as he walked. His home felt alien to him, an exact version of where he lived, but off in a way only he could tell. A copy so perfect it was surreal — the creaky wooden step his father had never gotten around to fix before he passed, the large mirror with the wrought iron frame that his mother had brought when she married. The dip in the wall where Theseus had accidentally set on fire when they were kids.

The cold air hit Newt's chest when he arrived downstairs, his skin rising in goose pimples and startling him. He never slept without clothing on, Pickett securely curled up inside his shirt pocket.

“Pickett,” he called out before reprimanding himself. _If he’s not here he won’t be able to hear you_. But by now the bowtruckle would’ve clambered onto his hair and painfully poked his scalp with sharp fingers, volatile as he was when woken. It wasn’t usual for Pickett to not be around. Newt forced to himself to retrace his steps, but another equally dark, yawning space rested in his mind. _Think, think, think_.

Images of dismissing Bunty earlier the night before — the woman had to Floo from London to Dorset nearly _daily_ , and Newt wasn’t a monster — of checking up on the gravid Re’em, and finally tending to his horklumps all flashed through his mind before he came across that same vacant part. A missing memory.

“Its nothing important,” he mumbled to himself as he crept into the kitchen, feeling ridiculous in sneaking around his own home, talking to himself. “Its nothing important at all, just,” he tried to reassure himself, “I need to get some actual rest more often. Wouldn’t be the first time I —”

Soft, high-pitched chirps caught Newt's attention. Dropping to his knees, he followed them as they grew louder, crawling under the kitchen table. His fingertips came in contact with a soft, trembling belly. Huddled against one of the legs was a baby bonnacon, Pickett clinging to it. Newt broke into a grin.

“Well hello you, now how did you get here?” The last time Newt had encountered a bonnacon was years before, watching a herd of them while in Yozgat. This bonnacon was a newborn, covered its dry birth fluids, still skittish and not meant to be apart from its mother or herd. No creature snuck into his case without him being able to bring it in. So who had brought it into the house?

Newt slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers and sighed in relief as he felt his wand. He pushed the thought aside and slowly crawled toward the bellowing creature. “Its alright. I’ve got you. You must be hungry, aren’t you?” Newt kept his voice low and soothing, coaxing the calf to him. Even as a baby, bonnacon feces could still burn Newt's skin, and startling him enough to self defense wasn’t a good idea. “Let’s get you some food. Come on Pickett, you too.”

Pickett made a strange cut-off sound. In the silence of the kitchen it seemed to echo. Newt frowned and offered his open palm for him to jump on it. “Hop on, Pic, what’s wrong?”

Nothing happened for a moment. Pickett held on to the calf tighter, protectively so. Newt waited for him to move. “Alright, I have no idea what's gotten into you today.”

He moved to grab Pickett, which prompted the bowtruckle to scratch his palm. Newt hissed, jumping and hitting his head on the edge of the table. His wand dropped and clattered on the floor. The bonnacon made another, lower cry, scared by its new and strange surroundings and sounds. Newt grabbed his wand and muttered a quick Lumos, raising to his hand. Where Pickett had scratched Newt were thin slashes, and blood began to run from them and down to his wrist.

“Pickett!” To his credit, Pickett seemed ashamed. He tentatively moved to Newt, who was nursing his bleeding hand. “What is wrong with you today? You’re not like this.”

Contrary to other bowtruckles, Pickett was sweet and harmless. He’d never once tried to defend himself from anyone because he’d never felt the need to, not even back when Gnarlak had carried him for those few seconds back in New York. Pickett placed his hands, as they were, on Newt's thigh. More than shame, his green face seemed to hold worry and surprise. At that Newt softened and lifted him to his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I must have startled you as well.” Both turned to the calf, who had calmed and regarded with wide, round eyes. “Let’s get us cleaned up.”

A quick check of the wards — enforced by Theseus when he’d visited — around the house showed that Newt was entirely alone. Only he and his creatures were there, so it was still a mystery as to who brought the bonnacon in. It still ran across his mind as Newt washed and bathed him, checked on his creatures and fed them. He decided, as he fed the calf, that no harm no foul. Perhaps the creature had managed to sneak into his case, somehow. Perhaps Newt was simply getting as careless as everyone told him he already was. The bonnacon was now safe with him, and there was no reason to worry about it, or how Pickett had acted so strangely that morning.

He had nearly forgotten by midday, too wrapped up in work, until later that evening, when he found Dougal nesting. In the demiguise's grip was a length of dotted fabric, stained with dirt and leaves and something else, but clearly not old. Newt wrestled it out of Dougal's grip. It was the fabric of a shirt of his, which Leta had gifted him for his birthday. It wasn’t an ugly shirt by far, but certainly not Newt's style. He had worn it yesterday when he’d gone to work. He rubbed his thumb over the marks on it, spreading them across the once white collar.

Newt held the shirt up to the light. There, the spots looked clearer, and he could perfectly see the old filth that clung to the shirt. Dust, collar, dark, dry blood. A long gash on a forearm. And on the sleeves, running from wrists to elbows, flesh, and the remains of some creature's placenta.


End file.
